Disenchanted
by Lady of Pride
Summary: The heart trembles where the soul fears to tread.


Title: Disenchanted

Fandom: Tanz der Vampire

Pairings: Herbert/Alfred; implied Sarah/Graf von Krolock; unrequited Alfred/Sarah

Rating: R-ish

Disclaimer: The Austrians (Germans?) must be duly credited with creating this stunning musical—Roman Polanski gets props for coming up with the plot, though.

Warnings: Herbert and homoeroticism come hand in hand, so I'm pretty sure that's a given... Maybe a hint of dub-con, but I think it can easily be seen as indifference.

Starring: Whoever you want, but personally I prefer Kamarás Máté as Herbert and Aris Sas as Alfred (or Lukas Perman, because that boy is fast becoming another favourite...).

_Spoilers/Timeline:_ Takes place following the end of the musical.

Summary: _The heart will tremble where the soul fears to tread..._

* * *

Cold lips worry his throat as he turns his gaze on the starless sky. The nocturnal fays have long since been obscured by a brumal storm, snow and ice glancing off the windowpane as the mortal world goes on sleeping, ignorant in its bliss—much the same way he was before embarking on the Professor's journey... Alfred thinks back to warm hearths and gentle laughter, and wonders solemnly how long it's been since he first stumbled across the threshold into von Krolock's eternal kingdom.

Too long, perhaps.

Sarah is out there, somewhere, roaming the benighted world as a harbinger of darkness. Alfred knows that she's still alive—still _animate_—in the way the Count sometimes gazes out the windows of his athenaeum fondly. She'll come again, Alfred knows, to be reunited with her dark lord and _saviour_, but not before she has done his bidding, spread his disease, like a rat that carries the plague. Only then will she be happy...

"You're distracted," Herbert huffs indignantly, the fingers of his right hand ghosting over the buttons of Alfred's shirt, plucking them open, one by one, with an unnatural grace. Alfred has become quite familiar with this dance and stops his own hand, mid-flinch, from grabbing Herbert's wrist.

Instead of giving in to annoyance or disconsolation, he sides with indifference and moves his arms a little so Herbert can slip off his shirt. Then he lies back on the mattress as the viscount straddles his hips, briefly fascinated by the golden strands of Herbert's hair, glimmering in the candlelight, as he tries to forget about the book he was looking for when he originally wandered up here.

"I'm thinking of Sarah," he admits quietly.

If Herbert hears him, he doesn't give any indication that he cares. Instead, the viscount ducks his head to steal a kiss, and Alfred simply allows himself to be enchanted, just this once, because thinking of Sarah is starting to wear away at his sanity and he's tired of wondering where he went wrong...

"_Mon cheri_," Herbert murmurs tenderly and Alfred just goes along with it, welcoming both the bitterness of his pain and the succulence of the pleasure that follows shortly after. Intoxicated; _bewitched_. A tiny voice in the back of his mind even goes so far as to suggest that _this_ is okay, and he gives in to it; simply lets himself go. It can divine, really, when he wants it to be, because Herbert's been at this for centuries now and because it hurts in such a way that Alfred can almost forgot he's no longer human.

When he cries out, it's Herbert's name that falls from his lips. A small surprise, but it's this tiny detail that earns him the extra bit of care the viscount sometimes forgoes in the better interests of his own gratification: an afterglow that's pleasant. It doesn't matter much to Alfred, really, but it sometimes makes him wonder if the dead really are capable of love—that maybe if Sarah truly loves the Count, there's still hope for him yet to find someone of his own...

"Oh, _Alfred_..." Herbert whispers softly, so happy and content—and _conceited_, as though he knows something Alfred doesn't. "You've become disenchanted, haven't you? Sarah's lost her charm."

Alfred tries to ignore the finger tracing idle patterns on his shoulder, but Herbert pulls him in close, under the warmth of the dusty duvet, and eventually he has to swat it away.

"I wasn't _seduced_."

"I know."

"...I loved her."

Again, quite smugly: "_I know_."

Alfred feels like lashing out at Herbert for making him feel so small; so _easy_. But he doesn't—because he never has and he never will. He died a love-struck boy, always quiet and polite, and he'll remain in that perpetual hell until Sarah puts an end to him.

"You'll see eventually," Herbert sighs, almost as though it's a promise, "...and then together we'll make you scream the house down."

"No."

"We will."

"I _loved_ her..."

He did.

"I know," Herbert says again, and Alfred can almost hear the smile in his voice—because Herbert really _does_ know and so does Alfred.

He loved her—truly, _honestly_, loved her—more than she could possibly understand...

But not anymore.

* * *

A/N: I'm not exactly the best at endings, so I apologize if it feels like a sudden jerk...

In any case, thanks for reading—I hope you enjoyed it! ;)

PS: If you see any glaring grammar mistakes, _please_ tell me. I hate them...


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